2 Death Rejoices

by A. J. Aalto

  “I just can't get comfortable. I'm sore all over. It's nothing.”

  “No, I'm uncomfortable and sore all over.” I touched his forehead, and he allowed it, but mouth-shrugged as if to say I was being silly. “Are you sure you're not sharing my suffering?”

  “Positive,” he said, too harshly. A faint smile couldn't erase that, but he tried.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, shifted from one bare foot to the other. I waited for him to spit it out, but when he finally did, I really wished he hadn't.

  “I seem to be experiencing your, um, feelings of desire, or gratification. I'm not sure what you said, exactly, during the spell you concocted to remove the bond—”

  “I found the spell online, I didn't make it up,” I said, remembering how the bottle of Harry's little white “vitamins” tipped into the circle and the spell's odd aftereffects. The bremelanotide, the pills that boosted libido. Oh, fuckballs.

  “Well, whatever you said, Marnie, it switched our connection from pain to pleasure.”

  I thought of Batten and me at the motel. “Uh, are you sure?”

  Chapel leveled his sharp, hazel gaze at me through his glasses. “I am absolutely certain.”

  I cringed, felt suddenly like I should put on more clothes. A lot more clothes. Like, maybe everything I owned. And I should throw away my sex toys. And torch my porn. And never, ever look at Mark Batten again.

  “So, I guess you think that yesterday I might have… but I so didn't. I was just thinking thinky-thoughts. You know. How you do, when you…”

  “You don't have to explain, Marnie.” He took his glasses off, fiddled with them, decided to clean them on his undershirt. “Just fix it. Please. This is much, much worse.”

  I opened my mouth to argue that, and thought better of it. “If you're feeling my pleasure, then why are you sharing my illness? A flu isn't gratifying.”

  “I've just got a little summer cold,” he repeated.

  “Let me see your eyes.” I took his shoulders and turned him to face the light coming from the kitchen; he had to slouch a lot to help me see. In the corner of each eye were fine, red veins feathering through the whites. “Stick your tongue out for me?”

  “This isn't necessary,” he assured me.

  I gave a one-shouldered shrug. “So humor me. It'll shut me up.”

  He did. His tongue was covered with white spots and a green film. I wrinkled my nose. “Ick. Lemme see your belly. Lift the t-shirt.”

  “Okay, you get some sleep, Marnie.” He turned to go and I hooked him by the elbow.

  “Seriously, Gary, let me see your stomach.”

  “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “Bumps. A rash.”

  “There are no bumps. Nothing to worry about.”

  I released him with an unsatisfied grunt. “If you see bumps, you tell me.”

  “I promise,” he said, his Great Dane face solemn. “Back to sleep. See you in the morning.” For a long moment, he lingered in the threshold between my bedroom and the dimly lit kitchen, surrounded by a nebulous halo. I realized that, of all the men in my life, Gary Chapel was the one who helped me the most, and asked for the least in return. And I had just tried to shoot him with a dildo.

  “Gary? You're not a zombie dentist, are you?”

  He shuddered, and his firm self-control slipped for a moment to show me pure revulsion in the form of a grimace. “I hope not,” he said. “I hate dentists.”

  What do you know? There was some flap in Unflappable Chapel after all.

  CHAPTER 47

  THE KITCHEN BLINDS WERE DOWN over the window above the sink as well as on the mudroom door, even with the early morning storm. Still, Harry stuck to the shadowy corner of the kitchen by the mustard yellow stove, stirring cinnamon into oatmeal that he insisted would give me the strength to overcome my flu and face another day of monster-hunting. It reminded me of gruel, Charles Dickens novels, and a documentary I'd seen about Alcatraz.

  Harry was dressed to kill: navy trousers with a sharp crease over Barker Black wingtip shoes, a virgin-white ascot with a subtle vanilla paisley print, and a crisp shirt—white pinstripes on a blue background, French cuffs, and platinum cufflinks. He shot his cuff to look at his watch, a Cartier Santos-Dumont white gold and crocodile number. He could have swung into the very swankiest of crowds and blended in immediately. In my kitchen, pale hands clutching an old wooden spoon, he was a pearl in a bucket of gravel.

  I, on the other hand, was dressed to break into your home and steal your Roomba: black jeans, black tank top to cover up a charming case of heat rash on my tummy, and, because my Keds were caked with melted asphalt from my motel adventure, a scuffed and worn-in pair of black eight-hole Doc Marten boots I'd had since I was nineteen. I'd shoved my hair back in a braid that the cool humidity had caused to frizz, passed on the make-up routine, and now slouched at the table, waiting for Harry's culinary torture to begin.

  Overhead, thunder rolled again, and Harry said companionably to Declan, “Another gowk's storm, my quill driver. ’Tis dark as the face of night out there. Barnstaple fair weather, indeed.”

  I listened to the tea kettle creaking as it warmed on the stovetop and wondered if a strong cup of Twinning's English Breakfast tea would help me understand any of that old English patter. Probably not.

  Declan made a soft noise of agreement at the head of the table. “Cool and foggy this morning, yes. A relief from the heat of yesterday.”

  Harry tossed him a cheeky smile. “Never too hot for the likes of me, lad.”

  They'd been up before dawn, Declan interviewing Harry again, and from the sounds of it, they were making headway this time. Their banter was pleasant, unhurried; Harry was behaving, keeping things light and not taking offense or getting huffy. I hadn't really tuned-in to the details until after my second espresso; when I did, they were starting to get into specific circumstances, dates and names.

  “Have you no shame at all,” Declan wanted to know, “over your exploits?”

  “I caught Geraldine with a fireman once. She was my second — no, third — DaySitter. The fireman was called Alfred, if memory serves, and he showed a kindling keen interest in her, if you will excuse the pun. My sudden appearance during their amorous activities gave him quite the fright, and he jumped out the window. Broke his ankle in the fall. With all the commotion, I had to flee the inn without my favorite valise. Skipped my stirrup-dram, too. Dreadfully rude, that.”

  At my frown, Declan explained, “Early firemen were the men who were responsible for lighting fires in the fireplaces in the inns.”

  “Ah, so not a hose jockey,” I said, and then grinned at Harry. “Or did you see hose, Harry?”

  “Would you be so kind as to limit your doggerybaw, my wanton rumpstall?” he scolded. “How your mouth does run on and on; some might suppose I have not the slightest measure of control over my pet.”

  Declan cleared his throat delicately and smiled into his fist. “We were speaking of shame?”

  Harry placed one fine, tapered finger to his pale lips in thought. “In 1776, in French India, I met a young gentleman cadet, an incroyable named Paul François Jean Nicolas, Vicomte de Barras. He insulted me, and so—”

  “You ate him?” I piped up.

  “No, my pet. I stole his hat.” Harry played absently with his ascot, tidying it. “My behavior was très gauche; to this day it causes me no small amount of shame.”

  Declan looked flustered. “That's it? A hat? That's the worst thing you think you've ever done?”

  “Au contraire, doctor, I have done much worse, but you asked about shame.”

  Declan wilted, then regained his composure, pressing tenaciously onward. “Fine. Tell me about French India. What were you doing there? I thought you lived in London.”

  “Oh, not until Queen Victoria was in power, long after I died,” Harry said lightly. “I spent a great deal of time in India and the Orient. Trade, and subsequen
t investments; that is where I made all my money.”

  “Uh oh, you've got him reminiscing about the good ol’ days,” I warned, “before Vicky and electric lights and indoor plumbing, when the viscount here would wipe his arse with lamb's wool. He'll be talking your ear off for hours.”

  “Now, poppet, there was nothing wrong with the light cast by gas lamps. It was quite a bit more flattering than this dreadful fluorescent claptrap.”

  “What sort of trade?” Declan leaned forward. “I'd heard rumors that you might have been involved in smuggling opium into China. That would have been very lucrative in the late 1700's.”

  Harry gave a wave of his hand and took out the cigarette case that was stamped JB. He scrounged in his pocket, did not find the matching lighter, but instead came up with a vintage gold Van Cleef and Arpels lighter, and lit a menthol cigarette, showing no intention of answering the opium question.

  I decided to be helpful. “Before all that, he lived in the East, near Lincolnshire. Show him a picture of your house, Harry. The one at Baldgate.” I told Declan, “There's an old album downstairs somewhere.”

  Declan stiffened, and his eyes drifted to the floor. Then he rearranged his face into an inquisitive smile that fooled neither Harry nor me. Being unable to read him with my Talents, I was left to wonder why the mention of Harry's home would bother him.

  I'd seen pictures of Harry's estate: limestone, lime wash, with a timber-vaulted roof. The white hart painting over his hearth was a symbol of King Richard. The yard was completely overgrown with sorb apple — rowan trees — showing both Harry's sense of humor and his tremendous undead balls.

  “Why leave England?” Declan asked. “In…” He scanned his notes on the iPad with a forefinger.

  “Banishment,” Harry said offhandedly, “unofficially. Self-exile for safety's sake.”

  “There were questions about his loyalty,” I added. “Got a nice bounty put on his head by a certain monarch who will not be named.” I pulled a spoonful of oatmeal up to my mouth and licked experimentally. It wasn't half bad, and under Harry's watchful gaze, I began to eat.

  “Banished from England, yet you travel to the UK often,” Declan noted.

  I shrugged. “No one alive remembers he's exiled. No one in power, anyway. He maintains a home in Warwickshire, the estate at Baldgate. He also has a home in France, where was it again, Harry?”

  “Saint-Rémy de Provence, just outside of Avignon. Don't forget the charming little château in Niagara-on-the-Lake, near your home town in Ontario.”

  I frowned. “You keep a house there, Harry?”

  “Dearheart,” he tsk-ed. “ ’Tis where your family resides. Of course I would maintain a residence there.”

  This was news to me. I doubted I'd see it any time soon; visiting the family that all but disowned me wasn't high on my priority list, nor theirs.

  “Must be nice,” Declan noted, “to have so much wealth and time. Especially for the ancient ones.”

  I felt a lick of frustration through the Bond, and studied Harry's face; he was a pro at masking his irritation, and showed Declan a patient smile.

  “The very eldest of us enjoy no feeling of triumph, nor the conceit of superiority. They have survived illness and age, war and industrialization, the equal threat of priests and hunters, and yet…” He tilted his gaze at me through a steady stream of smoke. “In many cases, they suffer lonesomeness, isolation, and the grinding boredom that is eternity. Many lose their battle with madness and despair. Immortality is a long lever arm by which even the smallest flaw may be pried wide.”

  Declan's free hand motioned in my direction. “I guess you're never bored with this one around.”

  “Bored, no. I am frequently and alternately amused, unsettled, frustrated, and baffled, but never bored.” He drew deeply on his cigarette, and when the smoke slipped from his nostrils, it curled lazily. “She is a fickle thing. Wholesome as I deem it for my pet to apricate in the heat of Apollo's mortal passions, I do wish she'd settle the matter once and for all.”

  I narrowed my eyes and shoveled oatmeal into my yap to keep from mouthing off.

  “And by Apollo, you mean…” Declan lifted his eyebrows.

  “Perhaps it is jealousy, doctor, to see Mark Batten as the light to my darkness, the bright heat to my cool shadow, the day to my night, but yes of course, I see him as that unshakable satellite that renders my purfled pet fretful, wayward, peevish, and silly.”

  “Purfled.” I rolled my eyes and sighed meaningfully. “That's not even a word.”

  “Comparing your rival to the sun,” Declan noted, “the most dangerous thing in your life.”

  “He's no rival,” I insisted, “and if you want to see me wayward and peevish, keep talking.”

  “Yet off she goes, the merry giglet, capering about with that voleur de bonjour behind my back.” Harry huffed, flicking ash. “She wants him, she doesn't want him, she hates him, she loves him. Have you any idea what that feels like, doctor? Here?” He thumped his chest where his heart used to beat. “In the wound-weary corners of my irredivivous heart? Torture.”

  “Hey,” I squawked, but that's all I really had in the way of defending myself, since he wasn't wrong.

  “When it comes to this malaise of the heart, you, my Only One, have all the indecisiveness of Sir Thomas Bloodworth. One can only hope that the extent of the damages will not be nearly as devastating.”

  I blinked at him.

  “The flames?” Harry offered helpfully, “The all-devouring flames, my pet?”

  “You lost me.”

  Harry gave a tolerant quirk of a smile. “Imagine my astonishment.”

  The urge to distract him made me check the time: it was closing on seven A.M. and the sun had climbed high enough to make the blinds glow. My cell phone rattled against the table. A text from Chapel. He had ended up spending the night in my guest room again, and his footsteps were making the floor overhead creak.

  “Time to rest, Harry,” I said. “Off you go.”

  “We have only just begun to plumb the depths, my fawn.”

  “It's late. You're going to get overtired, which could make you wayward, peevish and maybe even purfled.”

  “Good heavens, one should hardly expect that of a gentleman.”

  “Rest in peace, my Harry,” I said with a jab of my finger at the pantry.

  “I am given to understand that our young quill driver has many more questions for me.”

  Declan frowned at me. “A million, at the very least.”

  “You're done,” I announced, flailing my arms. “I'm done, you're done, we're all done!”

  “Good heavens,” Harry said, standing. “Such a fuss you make. Very well, if only to

  quell your giddy theatrics, off I go, if the good doctor will kindly excuse me.”

  Chapel's text read: I'll be down in a moment. I read it aloud for Declan, who nodded, put his anthropology work away, and pulled up our notes on the case.

  “I see that intellectual pursuits await you, my own darling.” Harry lifted his face to aim mild concern at the ceiling. “Our good companion must have received ill news, as he is rather distressed. See to him, my love.”

  Harry swept from the room in a graceful stride, and I set about making another cup of espresso. Some day off.

  CHAPTER 48

  WHEN CHAPEL HADN'T COME DOWNSTAIRS after ten minutes, Declan and I got tired of staring at each other over our demitasse cups and went upstairs to look for him. The bathroom door was wide open, the steamy little room clearly empty, the wet towels hung neatly over the shower curtain rod. Chapel's door was shut. I knocked, listened, and drummed up a tiny bit of psi, hoping like hell that I wasn't about to walk in on my boss jerking off.

  The Blue Sense reported like a slap in the face: fear. It yanked my guts tight like a drawstring.

  I threw open the door to find Chapel face down on the floor. The smell in the room was strong: the heady, hormonal sting of vinegar mixed with fresh sweat and Irish Sp
ring soap. Declan was stepping on my heels in his haste to get to Chapel's side, jostling me aside.

  “Turn him, turn him,” Declan urged, pointing at my gloved hands. He was already texting Batten.

  I eased Chapel into a slow slump onto his back. His eyes rolled back in his head and he let out a sour huff of breath. His face was covered with tiny white spots, each one surrounded with an angry red circle, like heat rash, only worse. I flushed and knew instantly what he and I shared.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” I breathed, noting that I sounded like Harry. “It's not flu.”

  Batten's boots stormed up the stairs behind us less than a minute later.

  Before he could demand his customary tell me, I rendered my diagnosis. “Corpsepox.”

  “From Harry,” was Batten's immediate assumption.

  “No. This doesn't come from being around the undead.” I gestured at myself, and saw a brief flicker in Batten's eyes that he remembered exactly what my skin looked like everywhere. “This is an unnatural virus brought on by overuse of necromancy.”

  Declan said, “Dark magic has its cost, Agent Batten. This one is the price of raising the dead and capturing spirits.”

  Batten wiped a hand over his forehead, and looked at his palm, grimacing as though he expected to see sickness on it instead of sweat. His voice became tight with anger. “You're saying Chapel is our fucking bokor?”

  “No!” Declan and I nearly yelled in unison.

  I said, “A world of no. All this means is that Gary's been near enough to the bokor to catch an airborne virus. Corpsepox isn't easily transmitted, the way chicken pox is. He'd have had to have been in real close and enclosed quarters.”

  “An elevator. Or sharing an office,” Declan suggested. “Or a plane ride, or a taxi cab.”

  “We haven't been near Spicer,” Batten said. “We've never seen him.”

  “You might have seen him or her, but you haven't been close enough to catch it.”

  “And you?”

  There must have been guilt on my face. I slapped a hand to the neckline of my shirt to prevent his finger from hooking it and pulling it open. “That's heat rash.”